


Day Off; Off Day

by Starrie_Wolf



Series: Fic Exchanges [Starrie Wolf] [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Established Relationship, M/M, Mission Fic, Phil: 1; Fury: 0, Post-Mission Fluff, SHIELD Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that while I was away on assignment, <i>my</i> specialist was drafted for a mission, without first consulting <i>me</i>. A mission that, due to a mixture of bad intel and general ineptitude, has resulted in the capture of all agents involved. Did I get all that right?”</p><p>Phil gets back from an assignment, only to find out that Clint wasn't where he expected his husband to be (read: on base and waiting). He had other plans for his day off, damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Off; Off Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/gifts).



> Well, you did say I can just focus on one of the pairings (: hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Requests filled: romance, plot, in-character, bottom!Clint

“Barton here. I have incoming.”

He resisted the urge to tap his earpiece when nothing but the faint crackle of static sounded in his ear, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good. Already, he could hear the rapid footsteps closing in on his position from two separate directions, blocking off his planned escape route. There was nothing for it, then.

“Going dark,” Clint whispered, and then with practiced motions ripped the earpiece out and shoved it down the front of his pants, moments before the first thug turned the corner and levelled a gun at his face. Their lack of surprise at discovering him told him all he needed to know.

One guess as to what happened to the rest of his team.

~*~*~*~

“So, let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that while I was away on assignment, _my_ specialist was drafted for a mission, without first consulting _me_. A mission that, due to a mixture of bad intel and general ineptitude, has resulted in the capture of all agents involved. Did I get all that right?”

“Yes Sir,” the junior agent squeaked out, clutching his files closer to his chest as if trying to hide behind them.

Phil Coulson blinked, very slowly, and raised his eyebrows at the junior agent.

“That was rhetorical.”

~*~*~*~

Why couldn’t they be the average incompetent goons who thought a weapons check equated a quick pat-down, Clint lamented in the safety of his mind as he was methodically searched for concealed weapons. Natasha would be so pissed that he’d lost the boot knife she gave him – and she would know. She always did.

And that was before they spotted the garrotte wire threaded into his belt and the second knife strapped to his thigh.

So now he was tied to a chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, wearing nothing but his boxers. He could dislocate a thumb if he really needed to, but his aim would be off for _months_ afterwards. No sniper specialist would risk his hands like that unless he was in much dire straits than this, and he would bet good money that they were counting on _that_.

Funny how they immediately jumped to the conclusion that he was a professional sniper, and not just some agent who knew how to use a rifle scope. He was using a regular sniper rifle and everything, so they couldn’t have recognised _Hawkeye_.

Oh, he definitely had a very good idea what had happened, all right.

~*~*~*~

“ _Barton, you’re up on the roof of this building._ ”

“ _Sir._ ” Clint’s voice would be perfectly neutral to anyone else, but Phil had long learnt to hear the thread of strain through it. “ _That would position me too close to the target._ ”

“ _Are you questioning orders, Barton?_ ”

“ _No Sir, but_ _I think –_ ”

“ _You’re not paid to think, Barton. That’s the analysts’ job. You’re just the muscle. Are we clear?_ ”

A beat.

“ _Yes Sir._ ”

Phil Coulson leant over and shut off the audio playback. He had heard enough.

“Is the extraction team ready to ship out?”

“Sir, the analysts think –”

“Would these be the _same_ analysts whose incompetence had cost us the mission in the first place?” Phil’s voice was icy cold.

The junior agent was, at least, smart enough not to argue any further.

~*~*~*~

After the routine initial intimidation session, they’d left him alone in a bare cell, without a single camera that he could spot. And he was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best agents, so if he couldn’t spot any, there _weren’t_ any. He might still have his hands cuffed behind his back, and his legs tied to a metal chair bolted to the floor, but he was _alone_.

Unseen by anyone else, a fleeting smirk flitted over Clint’s face.

~*~*~*~

Phil marched down the length of the jet to the mobile command centre set up in the main area. His strides were measured and steady, his tactical vest a comforting weight over his suit shirt.

“Any contact yet?” he greeted.

The extraction team jumped a little at his abrupt entrance. “Uh, Sir –” one of the agents, a Level Five if he remembered correctly, was the first to respond. “Contact from _whom_?”

Phil clicked his tongue once in irritation before getting a hold of himself. He casually reached over the workstation and turned on the audio feed for the comm-sets, adjusting the channels until it was tuned in to the frequency that the captured team had used.

Nothing but static came through.

“Monitor this,” he instructed. Right on cue, his phone began vibrating in his pocket.

On his way out, the rest of the extraction team exchanged slightly incredulous or confused looks, while he politely pretended not to notice.

“Coulson here,” he answered the moment he was alone, already knowing who it would be.

“Phil. You’re on it, then?” Nick Fury’s voice came over the phone.

Phil smiled his trademark pleasant smile, knowing Nick could hear it in his voice. “Well, I had other plans for my day off, and I’d like to return to them as soon as possible, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmph.” There was a period of silence, but neither of them hung up. “Fine, fine, Cheese. An extra day off to make up for this one,” Nick finally agreed on a gusty sigh.

If anyone had been looking, they would have seen Phil’s smile sharpen like a shark’s. “Pleasure working for you, Director.”

In response, Nick disconnected the call.

Phil made sure the tiny smirk was gone from his face by the time he arrived back at the command centre. The extraction crew, which seemed to be milling about in confusion, snapped to attention at his re-entrance. “Nothing yet?” he asked, not really expecting an answer since the audio feed was still spitting out static.

“Um, no?” one of the other agents found her voice this time.

Phil glanced her, and she shut her mouth with an audible little click. “Right then, let’s start the mission briefing, shall we?” he smiled agreeably. For some reason, all of them fought to suppress a shudder. “At oh-two-hundred hours this morning, a S.H.I.E.L.D. team was in position to witness a transaction arranged by one of the largest drug trafficking cartels operating along the America-Mexico border. Their orders were to tail them back to their headquarters, and then take out key personnel in order to dismantle the entire syndicate. However, the entire team has been captured, and now the syndicate is aware we are onto them. Here’s where we come in. There are two objectives to our mission: first, rescue of the captive team. Second, we finish their mission.”

He touched the mouse, bringing up an aerial photograph of a sprawling compound. “This is their headquarters, according to the last check-in. Aerial surveillance has indicated heavy guards around here, and here,” he pointed, “and therefore we expect the prisoners to be kept in either of these two buildings.” He paused and very deliberately checked his wristwatch. “It’s been about twelve hours since they were captured, and it’s another two-hour trip to the compound. I expect us to get some fresh intel before we land.”

The rest of the extraction team exchanged dubious looks, and this only served to broaden his smile.

~*~*~*~

Almost an hour had passed when there was a sudden crackle over the radio, and the nearest agent jumped so badly she spilt her drink.

“Barton to S.H.I.E.L.D. Barton to S.H.I.E.L.D. Anyone copy?”

Phil’s expression hadn’t so much as twitched. “Coulson here. Come in, Barton.”

There was the slightest pause, and then an explosive sigh rocked the radio. “Hi, Sir.”

“We’re about an hour out from your location. What can you tell us about your situation?”

“Hmm.” He could almost see the little furrow in Clint’s brow as he brought up the blueprints of the compound in his mind’s eye. “My assigned perch was on the roof of the building south-east of that water tower. They took me down to the ground floor, and then three buildings north and one building east. I’m currently in a cell with metal bars, but there’s natural light and bare patches of soil in places so I’m probably on the ground floor.” Clint paused again, consideringly. “I can get myself out, there don’t seem to be guards in the corridor, but I’m unarmed.”

Phil hummed in acknowledgement, circling the building Clint was currently imprisoned in. “Do you know where the rest of the team is kept?”

“Haven’t seen them at all,” Clint replied. “Just – the thugs knew exactly where my perch was and possibly my specialisation, Sir.”

“Do they now.” Phil’s voice was flat. “Very well, we will converge upon your position first. Update us if anything changes. Coulson out.”

“Barton out.”

~*~*~*~

He heard the gunfire long before he heard the measured footsteps coming down the corridor – well, given that those goons weren’t completely _incompetent_ , he wasn’t really expecting S.H.I.E.L.D. to be able to burst in without tripping a single alarm. Clint slipped out of the loosened bonds and slouched in the metal chair, putting on his most nonchalant posture.

Click. Click. Click. Silence.

He tilted his head, and gave his husband the most insouciant smile he could manage. “Don’t suppose you brought any spare clothes?”

Phil didn’t smile, although the corners of his eyes crinkled up slightly as he unlocked the cell door. “I’m afraid we don’t have anything, unless you want to relieve these thugs of their outfits. I don’t think they need them anymore.”

Clint stepped out of the cell, nodding his thanks as Phil proceeded to unlock his hands, rubbing at his wrists. He considered the nearest dead thug, whose clothes were soaked in sweat, blood, dust and possibly urine, and shook his head emphatically. “I think I’ll pass.”

“I did bring your bow, though.” Phil picked up the familiar black case leaning against the wall like the peace offering it was, eyes fairly dancing as Clint immediately opened the case and hugged his favourite recurve to his chest.

Then Phil spun around, his pistol already raised, and the two thugs that had just rounded the corner dropped dead before they even had a chance to pull their weapons. When he turned back, all traces of humour were wiped from his face.

“Time to go, Barton. We’re using frequency two-eight-oh-six.”

“Right behind you, Sir.”

~*~*~*~

The rest of the op was on par with expectations – naturally, given that it was _Phil’s_ op. Any witty remarks the cartel boss might have made about Clint’s state of undress or choice of weapon were quickly silenced when he dropped into a roll under the barrage of bullets, came to a stop behind several stacked crates, and shot all six of his bodyguards before any of them could get a bead on him.

“All clear, Sir.”

The mole – some Level Three technician whose name Clint never even bothered to remember – was quaking in his boots as Phil came striding in, gun pointed unerringly at the boss. In a flash Clint was in the corner, where he could line the boss and the mole up in a single shot if necessary. The rest of the extraction team came in, fanning out to trap them in a matter of seconds.

“Local law enforcement’s taken over the arrests, Sir,” the next-highest ranking agent after Phil reported. “Retrieval complete save for this one.” She turned a disgusted look on the mole, who had to brace a hand on the boss’ antique wooden desk to keep himself standing.

“Hands where I can see them,” instructed Phil.

The cartel boss scowled fiercely, but with six guns (and a bow) aimed right at him he must have come to the conclusion that even he couldn’t fight them all off simultaneously. Slowly, he put his hands on the desk, and the female agent who had spoken moved forwards to handcuff him.

A glint of metal.

Clint’s finger twitched, and the arrow sped through the air. The female agent jerked backwards on instinct as it flew past her, embedding itself in the man’s hand. The boss howled in a mixture of outrage and pain, the knife hidden in his hand clattering harmlessly onto the table.

The mole screamed and staggered back, clutching his arm, where a thin line of blood welled out. Judging from the sudden sharp acrid smell in the room, he also soiled himself.

Into the ringing silence, Phil said pleasantly. “The next time won’t be a warning shot, Mr Alvarez.”

~*~*~*~

Debrief was an awkward affair. Phil had casually tossed Clint his tactical vest once it became clear that the rest of the agents were far too distracted by his lack of clothing, but it didn’t quite fit. Eyes still darted to him once in a while, especially when someone else was reporting. Clint ignored all of them with practiced ease.

The original mission controller, a Level Six who had requested Clint by name, wasn’t the slightest bit ashamed of his actions, insisting that he would have succeeded had the mole not existed. Clint could see Phil’s eyebrows getting that little pinched look to them the longer the other agent spoke. Finally, he started accusing Clint of insubordination, and his husband evidently had enough.

“Barton.” At the interruption, the man stuttered to a stop, looking apoplectic.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Why the _hell_ were you taking orders from someone whose rank is lower than yours?”

The mission controller opened his mouth, and closed it again. He looked remarkably like a fish out of water. The rest of the extraction team was looking astounded.

“I thought the existence of Level Seven was supposed to be a secret, Sir,” Clint finally replied.

“Not when a bumbling simpleton tries his best to get a non-expendable asset killed because he can’t even tell the difference between a sniper specialist and a generalist with sniper qualifications.” Phil could have been talking about the weather for the inflections in his voice, but the glint in his eye told Clint how irritated he really was.

He considered this. “All right then.”

Satisfied, Phil turned back to the other agent, who wasn’t looking quite as confident as before. “Agent Wilkinson, you’re hereby charged with misappropriation of S.H.I.E.L.D. resources. Agent Barton, as I’m sure you knew, is not in the general personnel pool and you had no right to request him for your mission in the first place. He was doing you a favour, and you repaid him with insults at every turn. Agent Barton, would you like to charge him with insubordination?”

Clint blinked. Twice. “Uh, nah. He didn’t know.”

“Very well then. You’ll be placed on probation until your mission records have been reviewed by a disciplinary committee. You’ll then be called for a hearing, during which you may plead your case. The details will be sent to your email. Understood?”

Wilkinson swallowed convulsively. “Yes, Sir.”

Clint fought the urge to smirk.

~*~*~*~

Thankfully, the flight back to the Hub was short. An unimpressed glare was sufficient to keep any casual gawkers – not that there were many, given the late hour – away as Phil led Clint through the corridors to his on-site office and waved him to the couch.

Office was somewhat of a misnomer, actually – it was more of a mini-suite. In addition to the traditional computer desk-and-chair setup, a full-length pull-out couch dominated one wall. Against the other wall was the beginnings of a small kitchen, with a mini-fridge, an array of basic electronic appliances, and a cupboard filled with non-perishables. Given the number of overnight shifts Phil had pulled in the office, the additional amenities were more out of necessity than luxury.

Phil opened the door to the ensuite bathroom, and returned with the small medkit he always kept stocked. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Clint shook his head, catching Phil by the arm the moment his husband came within reach and tugging him down to sit beside him. “Just some bruises.”

Phil very carefully set the medkit down on the floor and gently grasped Clint’s forearms, examining his wrists. Already the skin around them was discoloured, mottled yellow from the abuse they’d been through in the past day. Then he bent his head, and laid a butterfly-light kiss on each.

“Are you –” and Clint had to clear his throat “– trying to kiss them better?”

His husband smiled back at him, his professional mask cracking for the first time that day. “Is it working?”

Clint huffed out a small laugh, hooking an arm around Phil’s shoulders and bringing him in for a kiss. Their mouths met, chastely at first, then Phil’s tongue was warmly seeking entrance and Clint’s eyes slid shut.

“Missed you,” he murmured into Phil’s mouth.

Phil sighed somewhat raucously, pulling back slightly. Clint opened his eyes slowly to see Phil gazing at him with a tender expression, thumb tracing the outline of his cheekbone. “If they had been aiming to kill instead of capture, I’d have lost you today,” his husband whispered, soft as a confession.

Clint turned his head until he could brush his lips against the thumb formerly resting over his cheek, acknowledging the fact silently and offering what reassurance he could. There were too many ‘what-if’s in their line of work to dwell on them all. Phil’s hand slid down to his throat, resting against the flutter of his pulse. Then he shifted his weight, slowly but inexorably pushing Clint backwards until Clint was lying down, trapped between Phil’s body and the couch.

Gun-calloused hands were steady as they pushed the borrowed tactical vest off Clint’s shoulders, leaving Clint once again in nothing but his boxers, and then moved to undo the buttons on his own shirt. As soon as he was done, Clint hooked a knee around Phil’s waist, tugging the man back down until they were flush against each other, letting his body say the words he didn’t need to speak aloud.

_I’m here, I’m alive._

~*~*~*~

They kissed slowly and languidly, Phil’s hand cupping the back of Clint’s head, as they came down from their respective highs. Clint wrinkled his nose at the sticky puddle on his stomach, glaring at the box of tissues on Phil’s desk as if he could spontaneously develop telekinesis.

A flashing light on the table caught his attention. Phil’s phone was blinking a little blue light, the colour for a non-urgent notification. Clint sighed. “When do I ship out?”

Phil turned his head to follow his line of sight, but didn’t get up. “Day after tomorrow, earliest.”

Clint’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “That’s… not standard protocol.” With a Level Eight back in the office, Clint would usually have been deployed within twenty-four hours. S.H.I.E.L.D. was involved in enough sensitive matters that everyone who was Level Seven and above worked on a rotating office/field schedule, ensuring there were always several higher-ranked agents on base in case of an emergency. The drug cartel assignment wasn’t actually an official mission – Wilkinson had needed a qualified sniper, but there were none available in the general personnel pool, and the range master had recommended Clint as a temporary substitute.

A simple in-and-out, they told him. Having a sniper as back-up was just a precaution. And Clint, bored stiff without anything to do, had agreed to help out.

“Fury gave you an extra day off,” assured Phil. He didn’t looked to be in any hurry to get off Clint.

Clint blinked, very slowly. Phil never ceased to amaze him. “How did you manage _that_?”

Phil only smiled in reply, the same pleasant smile that struck terror into the hearts of the junior agents. Clint had once heard one of them describe it as staring into the jaws of a shark, and had to smother a smile. “I can be very persuasive.”

In other words, Fury didn’t want to waste half a day trapped in a losing argument when he privately agreed with Phil. Well, Clint certainly wouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth.

He squeezed Phil’s ass teasingly. “Let’s go home.”

Phil’s answering grin was breathtaking.

**Author's Note:**

> The analysts had calculated the original perch for a generalist with sniper qualifications - i.e. someone who happens to be capable of using a sniper rifle as a secondary weapon - because a regular agent isn't expected to be able to make adjustments on the fly for the coriolis effect. A sniper specialist like Clint is capable of making accurate shots at a far greater distance.
> 
> As you can imagine, sniper specialists are far, far more rare. The syndicate boss should have assumed Clint was just another generalist, unless he had insider knowledge. But even he couldn't have imagined what seeing one in his element would be like.
> 
> [I have a Tumblr if you're interested!](starriewolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
